The Corner III (No Way Out) (3 page)

“All fifty thousand. Call your account and check. Be sure, pretty lady, before I leave you.”

Cathy finished dressing then pulled her cell out of the bag she had packed. It was a small bag to get her through her train ride to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. She put the phone to her ear and Koslov pulled a different pistol from his pocket and fired three rounds into Cathy’s chest before she had time to beg for her life. She died instantly, a round piercing her heart and each lung. Koslov put the pistol he’d shot Tommy with in Cathy’s hand then went to the bathroom and put the pistol he’d shot Cathy with in Tommy’s hand.

The Russians completed their promise to Slim, Bone and LaTanza. The Italians no longer had a strong hand in the drug game of Chicago.

*     *     *

Chavez stood over the grave of Victoria, his babies momma. He held a dozen lilies to his side—the late Victoria’s favorite flower. He felt a tear swell in his eye then looked to the sky. The cool breeze of the Chicago late spring weather hit his face and helped to hold the tear of the ruthless man back. He crouched, then set the flowers on the grave. He spoke low in Spanish, telling his babies’ momma that he would get her revenge.

Chavez took hold of his rosary, kissed it softly then felt the presence of someone. He placed his free right hand on his pistol that was in his waistband. Slipped his rosary back under his black sweatshirt—he couldn’t let anyone know that he believed in prayer.

Cat quick was Chavez when he pulled a chrome pistol from his waistband. Noonie held his hands up gesturing that he’d come in peace.

Chavez made a quick scan of the area behind Noonie, then said, “This better be good. You meeting me on sacred grounds like this.” He gestured toward Victoria’s grave.

“Got a tip on who did this. It took a while, but you know how young punks be flappin’ their gums about work that was put in,” Noonie said as he slowly lowered his hands.

There was a pause as Chavez’s glare cut deep into the Puerto Rican’s eyes trying to read him. Chavez was good at that, and it was one of his traits that kept him alive on the streets for thirty-two years.

“I’m listening,” Chavez said as he lowered his weapon to his side.

Noonie took a much needed breath. He’d spoken to Chavez earlier, and Chavez had agreed to the meet, granted Noonie came alone. Chavez was a killer, and he swore revenge for the death of two of his many children’s mother. Bone’s crew had made it look as if it was Noonie who had killed Victoria, hoping that it would cause Chavez and the Fuentes’ to go to war with Slim and Lucky’s people. The plan was going well, but then the police came up with a surveillance video from a grocery store parking lot that showed someone other than Noonie getting out of the killer’s vehicle and into another getaway car. Now Chavez had the proof he needed to call his hungry dogs off the wrong track and onto the right one, Bone.

Noonie said, “I have a name and address of the guy who was at a club talking shit. Telling some hoodrat about how he and his boys were on the come up. About how he’d put in work to get on the come up.”

Chavez grunted, “I still ain’t heard shit that makes sense. Some nigga talking shit in the club to some bitch. Naw homie, that ain’t enough.”

Calmly, Noonie said, “Let me finish, this clown told this broad that he’s going to be put on. Be made a lieutenant for knocking some bitch at a video store.” Noonie saw Chavez’s eyes squint with anger. “I’m not disrespecting, but I’m giving it to you the way it was said, word for word.”

Chavez nodded toward Noonie’s waist. “Is that for me?”

He was talking about an envelope that was tucked behind his belt.

Noonie said, “Got old boy’s name and his address, also where he hangs out.”

Noonie eased the envelope from his waistband and handed it to Chavez, who never took his eyes off Noonie as he took the envelope that was worth more than gold to him.

Chavez said, “I owe you one.”

“That you do. Once you get your revenge, I will contact you with what I need,” Noonie told him.

Chavez raised a brow, and Noonie caught the look. Chavez was keeping his hard disposition, but if the man whose name was in the envelope had taken part in Victoria’s death, he had no problem repaying a debt to Noonie.

Chavez put the envelope in the inside pocket of his thin leather jacket. He then thumbed his rosary, turned his back on Noonie then said, “The streets will let you know if I owe you a favor.”

Noonie walked away knowing that Chavez wanted to be alone. As he walked back to his Infinity SUV, he thought about Chavez thumbing the rosary and how a stone cold killer could be religious. “Guess it doesn’t hurt when you live your life in the streets,” he muttered.

Noonie stepped into the truck and drove slowly through the graveyard looking back at Chavez who’d just finished making a cross in front of his body with his hand, then kissed his rosary before tucking it inside his shirt.

I kind of feel bad for sicking that vicious dog on that poor young man, but fuck it. It’s all in the game.

*     *    *

Chantel was pulling the blue edging tape from the walls. She’d just finished painting the walls a sky blue and was ready to glue the clouds on them. She was wearing jean overalls over a long-sleeve white tee. An assortment of colors of paint was blotched, splattered or wiped on the clothes. Remnants of all the painting she’d done in the new home she shared with Noonie in the suburbs. Since she was a little girl, she’d dreamed of this look—a housewife. Well, she wasn’t a housewife yet, but she could surely be called a homemaker because she did most of the work around the house. On the inside that is. Cook, clean, paint, decorate and more. It’s the way she wanted it. Now all that was left was to get married, and she hoped that she and Noonie would be jumping the broom pretty soon. She had always hoped to be married before she had a child, but for now, things were great, and she had a feeling in her gut that Noonie was going to ask her to marry him pretty soon.

Chantel paused, then sat in the new rocker that matched the baby crib, dresser, chest and baby changing station. “Yep, I feel it in my gut. Your daddy is going to ask me to marry him soon, or is that just you kicking, little fella?”

Chantel was eight months pregnant and couldn’t have been happier. Well, maybe a little happier if Noonie had got out of the game. But he promised her when the baby was born, he was finished, he was tying up loose ends making it possible for him to leave. Some would say that Chantel should just walk away, but she knew what she was getting into when she fell in love with Noonie. The game was part of his life, and that made it part of hers. She just hoped that he was able to keep his promise and get out after their son was born because she would just die if something was to happen to their little one or his father. After being shot a year and a half ago and losing their unborn child, she realized that all the money, glitz and glamour that the game brought meant nothing if you couldn’t enjoy it because you or a loved one was killed behind it. Looking over her back and worrying about her man and any children they had wouldn’t be worth it.

Noonie lightly shook Chantel’s shoulder, waking her from her nap, and once focused, she placed her soft hand on Noonie’s as it was still resting on her shoulder.

“Ma, the room looks beautiful. Why don’t you let me help you with the work in this house? You are going to wear yourself out,” he said as he looked the room over. He was amazed at the transformation.

The room, like the rest of the suburban house, had needed much work done to it. The owners had let the home go and when it finally got foreclosed on, the recession kept a lot of people from paying the two-hundred thousand dollar ticket. But Chantel knew that a little work on the house would make it worth closer to three hundred thousand, and that would be a nice profit for when they moved away. Chantel hadn’t spoken to Noonie about it, but her father had left her some land in North Carolina, and she figured the slower-paced lifestyle of the south would be just what she and Noonie would need after the fast paced life of the Chicago hustle.

Chantel pulled at Noonie so he leaned in and kissed her. She then said, “The inside of the house is mine, and the outside is yours.”

“Okay, ma, but you’re eight months now,” he said as he knelt and rubbed her round belly. “I don’t need you trying to move anything heavy. No need to put stress on yourself or my little man in here.”

He kissed her stomach then said, “I brought you some Jerk chicken and beans and rice from Joe’s.”

“Oh, thanks,” she said excitedly as she eased from the chair.

“Go get cleaned up, ma, while I set the table.”

*     *     *

Jimmie lay on the bed naked as the day he came into the world twenty-one years ago. Camila, a Dominican born beauty emerged her dark-skinned self from the bathroom wearing a red thong and bra set that barely kept her voluptuous hips and ass contained. She was twenty-five and had been sexing men since she was sixteen—it was all she knew. Her mother was a trick and she’d spent many nights laying in her bed when she was young listening to her mother turn men out. That is, until her mother got hooked on crack, and that’s when the teenaged Camila had to fend for herself.

“Damn, you lookin’ good than a mothafucka,” Jimmy said.

“I’m glad you like. You’re the birthday boy. I gotta treat you right,” said Camila, her Spanish accent as thick as her hips. “Can I do what I want with you?” she asked as she traced her hand from his inner thigh to his manhood.

Jimmie was harder than Chinese arithmetic so that meant the blood had flown from his small mind to his large penis leaving him senseless.

“What do you have in mind?” he asked impatiently.

“I have a thing that I do. You are sure to have the best orgasm you’ve ever had. Do you want me to do this to you?” she cooed and Jimmie felt her body heat and sensuality as she brushed against him.

Jimmie was crazy over her Dominican accent and the sensuous way she moved her body, but he played cool by saying, “Do ya thing, baby.”

She smiled then walked toward the dresser where her purse lay. She stuck her hand inside the knock off Louie bag, then produced handcuffs.

Jimmie replied, “Been there, baby. Be more creative.”

“No, no. It’s what I do once they’re on. I’m not some sista from one of those strip clubs you hang at. I’m ’bout to put some cultural shit on your ass. Are you up for it?” she asked him, even though she knew his answer.

“Like I said, do ya thang.”

There were two pair of cuffs in Camila’s hand. She slinked her way onto the bed and crawled over Jimmie. She could tell he liked the way her body felt as she sat on his chest. Her mound emitted warm heat and she could feel his heartbeat quicken. Jimmie was young and stupid. He’d forgotten one thing Bone preached, to never put yourself in a position where you couldn’t defend yourself like the position he was in now, legs and arms cuffed.

Click, click
the cuffs sounded.

“I’m all yours, baby,” Jimmie said after feeling the cold iron contain him.

“Gotta get the oils and stuff from the bathroom,” Camila said as she sashayed away.

Jimmie got more excited when he watched her dark brown ass jiggle with every step as if it had a mind of its own. He’d laid a many sistas in the hood but never a Hispanic, and he couldn’t wait to brag to his boys. But what Jimmie is about to learn is that his mouth is his downfall.

Once back in the bathroom, Camila picked up her phone and sent a text.
ALL GOOD
.

She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t need one because she knew the man on the other end was waiting for her signal, and he was one who never slipped.

Camila had a bottle of oil in her hand, a feather, candle and lighter. Jimmie was cool with the feather and oil, but the lighter and candle he didn’t care for. “Baby, I’m down with everything but if you’re thinking about that hot wax shit, we might have to chill on that,” he said coolly, keeping his player persona.